


We Could All Together

by J (j_writes)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 18:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_writes/pseuds/J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At night, when she can't sleep, she walks the halls of the ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Could All Together

At night, when she can't sleep, she walks the halls of the ship.

It's easier on Galactica, where there are miles upon miles of walkways, where there is always someplace new to explore. At any hour of the night, the ship is always humming, a city on the move, a reminder that not everything in the universe is dead quite yet.

Colonial One is too quiet.

The engines hum, the same as aboard any other ship, but they're smaller here, and the crew sleeps more regularly, so it's not impossible for her to be the only one in the halls, her footsteps echoing hollowly off against the floor. Here, she has tread each path enough times that she has every corner memorized, every chip in the paint, every door that protests when it's opened. Here, the familiar doesn't comfort her, it only reminds her of the cage-like nature of these walls.

She takes to wandering the bowels of the ship to break the monotony, the decks where there are people awake at every hour, still working, still keeping the vessel alive and in motion. She has a secretive look she saves for them, the kind that says no one ever needs to know I was here, and so far it's been effective. She knows that her freedom to wander won't last forever, but each night she makes it a little further into the depths of the ship than she's gotten before, she considers it a victory.

It's in the third cargo hold on the seventh deck that she finds the boat. It's half finished, only a skeleton, but beautifully carved, a thing of beauty, casting mysterious patterns of shadows around the room. It's a monument to another age, and she finds herself thinking about it after she leaves, sketching its silhouette in the corners of her briefing papers.

Instead of wandering the halls aimlessly, she walks deck seven after that, circling closer, then sneaking in as if doing something illicit. Sometimes there are tools lying beneath the frame, tools as ancient and primitive as the wood which has been carefully wrought together by skillful hands, mismatched scraps seemingly gathered from sources all over the fleet. Other times, the room is empty, the smells of sawdust and coffee mingling in the air.

It's months later when she finally opens the door to find him there, bent over the frame of the boat, hands careful and strong against the wood. "So," he says without looking up," you're her new friend."

Laura takes that as permission to enter the room, and closes the door softly behind her. "Captain Gibbs," she greets him, and he turns to nod at her.

"Madame President," he replies. "I'd introduce you," he says, waving at the boat, "but it seems you've met."

"It's beautiful," she tells him. "Does she have a name?"

He smiles down at his work. "Most people would ask why I'm building a boat on a spaceship."

"Then I suppose you're lucky I'm one of the people who doesn't have to." She runs her hand across the bow. "Is this what you did, back on your planet? "

"It's one of the things I did," he says. "But no, never as a living." When he smiles this time, it's a little lopsided. "I worked for the government."

"Another life," she says wistfully, and he nods.

"In some ways." He gestures to the toolchest in the corner. "Drink?" he asks. She nods, more out of curiosity than anything else, and he goes over to the box, takes out two mugs and a flask. He pours them each a drink, and she toasts him in thanks before taking a sip. It's strong and unfamiliar, and fills her chest with warmth as she swallows. "Interested in helping?" he asks.

She considers for a moment. "I don't know anything about…" she waves her hand at the structure.

"You don't have to," he says. "Here, this beam just needs to be sanded down." He places his hand against one rough section of the frame.

It was slow work, tiring, but it was an honest exhaustion she felt as she finally lay down in her bed in the early hours of the morning, different from the soul-numbing tiredness that had gripped her for years. She slept deeply, and dreamed of the sea.

She didn't return every night, but she came often enough that it became habit, settling down to work by his side. They labored slowly, neither of them believing they would ever create a full boat, or even wanting to. The work was the goal, not the product, and she learned through his careful steady instruction about boats and starships and the seas they traveled in.

There were nights they slept under the frame, nights when the walk to her room was too long, the trappings of the presidency too heavy and tiresome, and she'd sleep against his side in a pile of blankets, waking in the night to press her lips to his skin, touch his body with her hands, feeling him rocking against her in the darkness as if their boat truly did sail on the oldest and most familiar of waves.

In the end, their boat did sail its one and only journey, into the sun, and below, on the steady ground of earth, the captain began another boat, fashioned in the wood of their race's new home. This one, he named for her.


End file.
